


this aching, impossible desire

by bannerless (seraf)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: ( manuela - its not mentioned but it's very important to me ), Canon-Typical The Desolation Content (The Magnus Archives), Character Study, F/F, Inaccurate Catholicism, Lesbian Sex, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Strap-Ons, Trans Female Character, the inherent homoeroticism of lesbian milfs in evil cults trying to end the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29445645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/bannerless
Summary: it’s an elaborate dance they do, the two of them, in the dark.needless to say, manuela had not stipulated why she needed the swathes of fire-resistant material, but it was hardly difficult to come by, in the remains of the daedalus project, and it had been one of theirs working in inventory to begin with. she didn’t even have to convince whoever it was that she needed it for their dark sun. it was simply the assumption drawn.hard to feel guilty about the ruse now, with the fabric draped over her thighs, bound up somewhat crudely about her waist like a corset, when it allowed agnes to straddle her thighs the way she was now.
Relationships: The Dark & Manuela Dominguez, agnes montague & the desolation, agnes montague/manuela dominguez
Comments: 15
Kudos: 37





	this aching, impossible desire

**Author's Note:**

> this is what being a lesbian ally looks like

it’s an elaborate dance they do, the two of them, in the dark.

needless to say, manuela had _not_ stipulated why she needed the swathes of fire-resistant material, but it was hardly _difficult_ to come by, in the remains of the daedalus project, and it had been one of theirs working in inventory to begin with. she didn’t even have to convince whoever it was that she needed it for their dark sun. it was simply the assumption drawn.

hard to feel guilty about the ruse now, with the fabric draped over her thighs, bound up somewhat crudely about her waist like a corset, when it allowed agnes to straddle her thighs the way she was now.

even through the space-grade material, she can feel the heat of her body. the way you can still feel the glow of a fire light up your back after you’ve sat in front of it for too long, even when you step away. but beyond that - she can feel _her,_ the minute shifts of her thighs, the way she tips a little _too_ much forwards, rolling down against the strap, and has to catch herself, careful even in her breathlessness not to cling to manuela, hands leaving scorch marks on the headboard.

( a long welt across manuela’s shoulder bears testament to one of the times she hadn’t managed to be so careful, agnes holding her as she had come apart. manuela can’t begrudge her it, if she’s honest. she thinks about what she had learned as a younger girl; that _passion,_ when it comes to a messiah, is synonymous to suffering. it’s not something she would ever voice to agnes, who never wanted deification. but agnes’ shuddering breath will leave scald marks on her skin, and _passion_ and all it can mean is the word that lingers in manuela’s mind. )

manuela’s fingertips are already burned past the point of feeling, from when the dark she had been trying to form into a shape remembered how incorporeal it was usually meant to be, and had fallen apart, the light splitting back over her hands with an intensity that feels like it could have killed her. she curses it, for that, but not right now. her nerves are too damaged for the desolation to gain anything by burning them. there is no pain she can feel worse than the light that had tried to tear through her, then.

she does regret how rough her skin must be, though, as she traces down from the crease of where agnes’ thigh bends at her hip. still. if agnes minds, she doesn’t say, the only sound she makes as the pads of manuela’s fingers rub at her clit being a quiet breath punched out of her.

in the dark, it’s hard to tell if agnes is smiling. manuela thinks she is, though, when she speaks, settling the motion of her hips for a moment. ‘ sorry. give me a second. my legs are falling asleep. ‘

are they? or does she just enjoy the novelty of being able to _say_ they are? the humanity of the way manuela wraps her own hand in a pillowcase to offer agnes a second of support as she pulls herself up and settles with her legs sprawled out around manuela, getting off her knees for a moment, the rustle of agnes’ brown hair in the dark, the secret of their smiles.

( the pillowcase will have scorch marks in it the next morning, she knows, like cigarette-butt burns, making manuela’s windowless room smell faintly of incense. she should replace them more regularly, she knows, but . . . she tends to just turn them over, imagining they help her drift away to dreams of open, unseeable landscapes, where a dark and lightless sun has scorched the earth bare, and agnes walks barefoot and soft in the dunes of black ash. )

it’s selfish of manuela, perhaps, but she is grateful for the dark and the balm it offers of hiding the layers to their expressions. it would be too much for this moment to be stripped bare and base by the harshness of light. _ruinous,_ somehow, to see if the quiet mournfulness agnes always carries with her, like concrete angel wings weighing her thin shoulders down, is still there when she comes on manuela’s fingers and her strap. to see the moments where manuela is not proud of herself, in how her thoughts turn to the reverential.

agnes, another time, had turned the old cross pendant manuela kept on her dresser over in her thin fingers, looking at it with curious eyes. ‘ raymond used to take the rest to church, ‘ she had explained, then. ‘ but never me. i always wondered what it was like. why i couldn’t go. ‘

it’s a strange thing, isn’t it? the dance they do, around the gods they had once had and the ones they serve now. from all manuela has heard of the man, raymond, despite how faithfully he served the mother of puppets, was genuinely devoted to a much more mundane church. when agnes had been born, her mother had worn a crown of thorns. manuela worships her new god in the crumbling and abandoned remains of places that had once belonged to the old, and hopes hard enough it makes her fingers tremble. hopes that just as they have taken these ruined places of worship and made them sanctums of the dark, so too will they one day cast all of his creations of _light_ into the shade they truly deserve.

_fiat tenebris._

she had fastened the necklace around agnes’ throat, fingers coming so close to the pale skin of her throat that manuela could almost feel the fine hairs on the back of her neck. the heat of her body had soon warped the metal, twisting the shape slightly and changing the color. it suited her. though she can’t know it either way, manuela hopes she’s wearing it even now, the thin cross sliding between the slight curves of her chest, gold against cream. that it dances in the dark when manuela makes her shudder.

there’s a searing pain that suddenly lances across manuela’s fingers as she rubs agnes between them, and she pulls her hand back with a stifled gasp after a few more seconds of trying to bear it makes it clear that this is not something she can grit through. she can feel the way agnes’ hand hovers by her shoulder, instinctively reaching out and just stopping short. manuela can almost _feel_ the callouses of her fingertips splitting, dry skin cracking like arid earth.

she doesn’t know the words for what happens next. how to put words to the way that it isn’t _blood_ that wells up in the cracks of her skin, but _light,_ dripping down her arm and then fizzling out as fast as it appeared, like sparks winking to specks of floating ash in the night. the heat of agnes’ skin bleeding the light out of her hands where they had come so close, too close, to the antithesis of the dark she serves. like draining a wound. the plague of illumination being drained out of her skin, searing on its way out, but fading to blessed relief.

manuela is grateful when the last of the light flickers into nonbeing. there are tears pouring down her cheeks, brackish and salty, and she can’t tell whether they are in pain or ecstasy, the light excised from her at last. it would be a lie, to say she wasn’t thinking as she leans forwards, close enough to agnes’ mouth that she can feel the movement of the air when agnes murmurs _i can’t._

( later, manuela will nurse four small burns that caress the side of her cheek, brown skin turned blistering pink. a reminder, of agnes’ hand gracing the side of her face, if only for a moment. the sting of it aches like regret. )

_everything that can stand the fire, you shall pass through the fire, and it shall be clean._

the scourge of light, chased from her hands. a miracle. she will not do agnes the injustice of calling it one.

instead, she simply lifts the sides of the sheet from where it drapes over her thighs, bunching it up around agnes’ hips enough that she can loosely wrap her arms about her waist. there is a line of searing pain where the material folds wrong, where her forearm presses to bare skin, but she ignores it. they simply rock together for a while, in the dark, the motion of manuela’s hips into agnes steady and even. just moving together, agnes every so often moving with her, rolling her hips back onto the strap, but for the most part, just shifting with the way manuela moves.

and agnes’ hands wander, as much as they’re able. over the wide straps of the undershirt manuela still wears. smoothing down the sheet over manuela’s hands, so that her fingertips can trace little circles over manuela’s knuckles, muffled in the same way sound is through water. through manuela’s hair, careful not to touch her scalp. careful to not turn manuela’s body, imperfect though it may be, into another burned home. another place where she is too holy to live.

when manuela shifts her fingers back between agnes’ legs, tips of them working gently over the place that makes agnes gasp, the dark hides that. when agnes finally comes apart, it hides that as well. the way agnes’ voice shakes, the way her hand shifts for a second as though to reach for manuela’s hand, the contentment in her sigh when manuela finally pulls out of her, setting the strap aside . . . those are things kept between manuela, agnes, and the protective embrace of manuela’s god.

there will be practicalities, later. manuela will stand in the shower until the water turns murky and brackish, as though it is glad she’s there, and agnes’ bathing will fill her small apartment with steam, as though a censer had been carried through the dark rooms. she will have to throw out the toy. silicone is good in the heat, but it _does_ warp with too much, and it just feels safest to replace them. agnes will turn on the flashlight manuela keeps in the bedside drawer just for her, just to have enough light to dress herself by, and manuela will avert her eyes - both from the light and from all it exposes. from the tiredness that settles back into agnes as she prepares to rejoin her faithful, from the way her fingertips tremble for a moment.

but for now, the dark settles over them both. for now, manuela lies on her side, and feels the weight of agnes behind her, arm slung over the sheet draped over her hips, lips close enough to the back of manuela’s neck that her skin will retain that heat well into next morning. for now, manuela tells agnes that she’s beautiful, and can feel agnes smile behind her when she says ‘ you can’t see me. ’

‘ exactly, ‘ manuela murmurs, and feels agnes hold her just a little bit closer.

**Author's Note:**

> did my best to be as accurate in my catholic blasphemy as possible. idk anything about christianity i am a jew. however. i gave it my best shot and tried really hard


End file.
